


when in hell we do shots at the bar

by feistycadavers, glitchesaintshit



Series: 21 in 2021 [2]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Eating, Come Marking, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Panties, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Touring, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchesaintshit/pseuds/glitchesaintshit
Summary: “Ow, fuck,” Jim mumbles drowsily, and John stifles a giggle. Jim starts, his eyes flying open, and he relaxes visibly when he sees John. “Shit, I thought there was a girl in my room.”or, ozzfest 2001 is a hell of a drug
Relationships: John 5/Jim Root
Series: 21 in 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095296
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	when in hell we do shots at the bar

**Author's Note:**

> hey friends. due to recent events on tumblr dot edu i will no longer be writing in the slipknot fandom. therefore i wanted to post what i have of this fic.
> 
> it starts the morning after my fic disasterpiece happens. this is UNFINISHED. ao3 user glitchesaintshit is gonna take the hand off since we are essentially just kermit and gonzo. chapter 1 is written by me and chapter 2 will be all them.
> 
> this has been in the works since i posted disasterpiece and it's by far the longest thing i've ever written but i hadn't touched it in months since i was in miw hell so it feels good to get this off my back. thanks slipknot tag friends. sorry some folks had to ruin it.
> 
> title from pornogratherapy by every time i die?? i think?? ETA: it's ebolarama i'm a moron

John wakes up slowly, then all at once. He’s very aware of someone asleep most of the way on top of him, and his face is smashed in the pillow, the person’s nose pressed into the nape of John’s neck. At first John wonders if he accidentally let a girl sleep in his hotel room, in which case, oh god he’s never going to hear the end of that because Ginger did that once in ‘96 and Manson still won’t shut up about it, but then the person shifts a little and stubble scrapes against John’s shoulder. John’s not sure if that makes this better for his reputation as the New Guy, or worse.

John shifts a little, lifts his head. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and they focus on the arm draped around him, at the tattoos on it. John’s head aches in a way he imagines a hangover must feel. He sits up halfway, turns to the television, the Pay Per View menu still up. They must’ve fallen asleep watching _Star Wars_.

Jim stirs, his arm curling around John, big hand on his chest. John sits up the rest of the way and Jim rolls onto his back, stretching his arms above his head and whacking his knuckles into the headboard.

“Ow, fuck,” Jim mumbles drowsily, and John stifles a giggle. Jim starts, his eyes flying open, and he relaxes visibly when he sees John. “Shit, I thought there was a girl in my room.”

“I thought the same thing,” John says, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Was worried about Manson giving me hell for it.” Jim yawns, throws the blankets off himself, and gets up. John pulls the sheets up to cover himself, watches Jim walk to the bathroom totally naked. That must be a straight person thing. Besides, what’s he got to be ashamed of that needs covering up.

John is half out again by the time the mattress dips under him, his eyes drifting open as Jim gets back into bed. John’s a little surprised he’s laying back down instead of getting his clothes on to leave. Jim pulls John back into his chest, arm locking around him, hand on his collarbone. John relaxes into it, puts his hand on Jim’s arm.

It’s only a few minutes past seven. The dawn is coming in through the gap between the blackout curtains, blue light of the TV cast on the wall. John could easily fall back asleep like this, in Jim’s body heat. John figures if he compromised his bisexual morals by experimenting with a straight guy, he picked a decent one, given he’s staying to cuddle into the next morning.

Jim’s mouth presses against the top of John’s head. John sighs, comfortable.

“Hey,” Jim murmurs into John’s hair. John hums an inquisitive noise. Jim’s fingers tighten on John’s shoulder for a split second. “Can I, uh.” John opens his eyes, waits. “Y’know.”

“No, I don’t know?” John asks. Jim’s quiet, his hand sliding down to John’s stomach. Ah. The reacharound. Jim _had_ offered to jerk him off last night.

“Can I?” Jim asks. John scoffs.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. Jim’s hand moves to John’s hip, thumbing at where the bone prods out a bit, and John melts into the touch. His dick is very much awake. Jim’s fingers are just sort of lingering at the base, hesitating, and John doesn’t push. His calluses scrape a little where stubble is starting to grow back in. John reaches his arm back, rakes his fingers through Jim’s hair, shifts back to align their hips. John can feel him half hard against his ass and stiffens a little. Jim seems to feel that, because he finally takes John in his hand, and John purrs appreciatively. He knows Jim’s probably just trying to get the most out of this hookup, given he probably won’t end up fucking around with a guy ever again, but John’s never going to turn down a handjob from someone with such nice hands. John pulls the sheets back, looks down at Jim’s hand around his cock, broad palm and long fingers with chipped black nail polish.

“That alright?” Jim asks, his voice low and creaky, still tired. John nods.

“Yeah,” John says. “Just wanted to watch ‘cause you have nice hands.” Jim cranes his head around, mouths a kiss at John’s neck, and John winds his fingers in Jim’s hair, keeping him there. He rolls his hips back into Jim’s for good measure. Jim makes a quiet noise into John’s skin, licks up to his jaw, sucks kisses there. Jim’s hand isn’t doing enough, just long strokes, slow and torturous but still so good because it’s him. Damn. He’s actually pretty into this. John moans softly, urging him on. 

What he doesn’t expect is for Jim to slide out from under him and start backing himself down the bed over John, shitty bleached bangs hanging in his eyes.

“Whoa,” John says, shifting up a bit, and Jim looks a little dejected.

“Is that okay?” Jim asks. John blinks quickly, pushes his hair back out of his face.

“I, uh, yeah,” John says quickly, “but I just. Wasn’t expecting you to _offer_.”

“I just,” Jim says, sitting back on his legs between John’s knees, “wanted to try, I guess. Y’know?” John huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” he says. “I just, uh. I don’t really come from oral that easily so don’t feel bad if I don’t. Y’know.”

“Promise I won’t,” Jim says, leaning back in, hands planting in the mattress on either side of John’s hips. “I just gotta do what I like done to me, I figure.” John lays back into the pillows.

“Yeah, s’long as you watch your teeth you’ll be fine,” he says, as Jim nods, lowers his head. “I’ll help you out if you need,” John adds, and Jim glances up at him through his bangs. John gives him an encouraging, probably awkward grin. Jim turns his eyes back down, seeming to consider how to tackle this. John can practically see the gears turning. Jim takes him back in his hand, ducks his head down, gives an experimental lick up the underside. He does it again, a little slower this time. John gives a soft hum of approval. Jim closes his mouth around John’s cock and the light that’s coming in through the gap between the curtains is thrown across Jim’s face, the half-bleached parts of his bangs seeming to glow orange. John sighs, relaxes into it, lets his head fall back. He’s still amazed that Jim even got back into bed after getting up to pee, and now he’s got John’s dick in his mouth. John’s breath shakes as Jim starts moving his head, one of his big hands sliding up to John’s ribs. His other hand is clamped around John’s thigh, and John’s trying not to squirm or jerk up into his mouth. “Shit,” John whispers. Jim lifts his head, quickly wipes the drool that strings from his bottom lip with the back of his hand.

“That okay?” Jim asks. He has his hand on John’s spit slick cock, working it as much as his length will allow with Jim’s broad palm. John actually whimpers, which is embarrassing.

“Yeah, you’re doing great, just -- please,” John stutters out. He feels his face burn but Jim takes him back down again, most of the way, and John’s moan breaks in his throat. Jim’s annoyingly good at this for it being his first attempt. John arches off the bed and Jim’s hand flat on his chest holds him to the mattress. Fuck. _Fuck_. John brings a hand down to brush his fingers through his hair, and has to fight the urge to pull. He’s got his eyes trained on the smoke detector on the ceiling, very pointedly not looking at Jim, because John’s pretty sure if he looks down it’ll be like looking directly into the sun and he’ll instantly go blind or something just from seeing Jim with his dick in his mouth. Jim adjusts his angle, and John moans again, legs shaking a little. Jim has a quick pace going and he isn’t stopping to come up for air, and for a moment John thinks he might actually come from this. John pushes Jim off, palm against his forehead. “You gotta stop to fucking breathe, jeez,” John says, but really he just needs a moment to compose himself. Jim’s lips are all swollen red. John has no idea how he’s gonna be able to talk to him for the rest of tour without thinking about that.

“I’m fine,” Jim says. He bites his lip. “Am I doing alright?” John huffs.

“Yeah, sheesh,” he says. “Do you want to…?” John trails off, not sure if Jim wants to fuck him again, or finish him off with his hand, or what.

“M’not done yet,” Jim says, voice firm. John blinks dumbly, wants to say something, but Jim’s already got his mouth around him again, and any hope of composing a coherent sentence is gone. John’s head falls back and he moans, arching reflexively into the wet heat of Jim’s mouth. Then Jim’s hands are holding him down again and John grabs onto his wrists, feeling himself shake. Jim’s nose is pressing into him every time he goes down. 

“Jim,” John says pointedly, his voice shuddering. He can feel the orgasm curling up in the pit of his stomach, and Jim seems to have no intention of stopping. “Jim. _Jim_.” John whines, writhing in his grip, but he still doesn’t stop. “Close,” John says, figuring that will get him to stop, because he can’t imagine Jim _wants_ him to finish in his mouth, but he still doesn’t. John’s trying to stave it off, grits out, “I’m gonna come,” and when Jim doesn’t stop at that he figures he deserves whatever he gets for being stubborn and not listening. John cries out when he comes, fingernails digging into Jim’s wrists, back arching clear off the bed. Jim slows a bit, and John pants, looking down at him, catching his gaze through his bangs as he bobs his head off, swallows. John sees his throat jump with it.

John feels equally as wrecked now as he did last night.

Jim sits back on his legs, wipes his mouth, then climbs over John, laying his body into him and pulling him into a heated kiss. John makes a surprised little noise but lets him in anyway, tastes himself in Jim’s mouth. He feels Jim hard against his leg, the weight of it, and John purrs, automatically reaching down to grab him, but Jim stops him, holding onto his palm.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Jim says. He shifts over and pulls John’s back to his chest again, arm locked around his middle, hand still wrapped around John’s. Jim is sucking kisses into John’s shoulder that will surely bruise under his tattoos, and John shudders. A rain check. He stares at the clock on the side table, nearly 7:30.

“Half hour till bus call,” John mumbles. “Gotta drive to LA.” Jim sighs in his ear.

“Alright, no fun police,” he remarks. He brings John’s hand up, kisses his knuckles. “Five more minutes.”

John can do that.

//

John doesn’t see Jim at the Devore show. He doesn’t see him before they pile into the buses to make the overnight trip to Vegas, and by the time he finally sees him again he’s fully masked up, about to go onstage. John’s hiding back behind his gear trunks, offers him a smile as he walks over to gather his Strat for the first few songs. Jim’s eyes squint in a way that suggests he’s smiling back at him from behind the jester mask strapped to his head. John watches the first half of the Knot set before he has to go backstage to finish painting his face and put on his trench. 

Jim’s watching the Manson set from John’s side of the stage this time, which is entirely too close. He’s distractingly large, and John nearly gets plowed over by Manson more than once because he’s busy admiring how small Jim’s beer can looks in his hand.

The last dissonant screeches of The Beautiful People are fading into the PA playing Suicide Is Painless, and John’s grinding the strings of his Ibanez into his stack. He tosses it back against his shoulder and passes Jim on the way to give it back to his tech, and when he turns back around to go talk to Jim, Jim’s already gone. He looks around, but doesn’t see a trace of where he’s disappeared to, so John heads for the backstage entrance to go take his face off. There’s enough MAC cream paint sweated into his eyes to blind anyone who hasn’t already built a tolerance to it, but he supposes he signed up for that when he shaved his eyebrows off. He’s headed for his dressing room when he hears Jim’s voice.

“Hey,” Jim says. John backtracks and Jim is standing in the hallway he just passed. He’s not sure how he got there. “C’mere.”

“What’s up?” John asks, wiping his brow. Foundation smears off on his hand. Eugh.

“So. Uh.” Jim’s voice is clipped, short. He tucks a lock of greasy hair behind his ear but it doesn’t stay. “What are you guys in Manson camp doing tomorrow?”

John looks at him. He’s still not sure where things stand, given what happened the other night in Mountain View, but he supposes that’s a few hundred miles away and in a different state now. Better to get over himself.

“I mean, I don’t know what they’re doing,” John says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stage, “but uh. I’m probably gonna sit around in my hotel room and play guitar and watch bad horror movies. So. The usual.”

“Is it rude to invite myself to that party?” Jim asks. “‘Cause like. Y’know. That sounds like a good time. And I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you again. If you want.”

Hanging out. John’s not sure what that entails. Is he asking for that rain check?

“Uh, yeah,” John says. “Sure. If you want. I think the hotel has DVD players and I brought a ton of movies.” Jim’s face breaks into a wide smile, and he nods.

“Awesome,” Jim says. He bites back his grin, glances down at John’s stage clothes, which are already disgusting. John makes a mental note to send them back in the laundry again. “Hey, are you, like, wearing pants under there?” John blinks. He must be a little buzzed. Jim asks questions when he’s buzzed.

“Uh, no, just fishnets,” he says, pulling the slit in the trench over to show him. “These are pretty wrecked. I gotta get new ones next Walmart trip.” Jim nods.

“Oh, okay,” he says. He’s quiet, very visibly thinking, as if he’s trying to do complex math in his head. After a long moment, he nods once. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go get myself a venue shower before there’s eighty other dudes in there. See ya.” Jim tucks John’s hair behind his ear, a surprisingly tender gesture, before slipping around him and disappearing down the hallway.

When John gets back to his dressing room and takes his trench off, he stands in his fishnets and boxers and boots with his back to the mirror and twists his head around to see the bruises blooming up purple that Jim left on him, tinting the flowers of his tattoos.

//

The air conditioning unit is rattling under the window, dull white noise. John’s noodling on his favorite gold telecaster, leaned over on Jim’s shoulder. It’s probably still too hot for sustained human contact, but Jim smells nice, and Jim also didn’t get weird when he rested his head there, so that’s a win. Jim might be John’s favorite straight guy. Him and Ginger. Ginger’s also not weird about physical contact.

John’s only half watching _Final Destination_ , which was Jim’s pick. Jim likes stupid teen horror movies, which John appreciates, because most people think just because a movie is ridiculous and over the top it’s bad. Jim also understands that just because a movie is bad doesn’t mean it’s not enjoyable to watch.

“I should’ve brought my guitar,” Jim says, and John glances up at him. He’s wearing his glasses, which John finds both endearing and attractive.

“I’m honestly surprised I only have one in here,” John admits, which Jim laughs once at. “Hey, wanna see something weird?” Jim looks down at him. “Since I played guitar so much while I was growing, my fret hand is longer than my picking hand.”

“No way,” Jim says, and John places his hands together, aligning the bottom edges of each palm, and sure enough, the fingers on his left hand reach slightly more than those of his right. “Fuck. That’s fucking weird.” Jim brings his right hand around, holds it up, and John swallows dryly as he puts his hand against Jim’s. When he lines them up, his fingertips only reach Jim’s second knuckles. “You have tiny hands,” Jim comments.

“Small girl hands,” John remarks. Jim curls his fingers in, folding them over John’s fingertips. John watches as Jim takes his hand, brings it up to his face, and kisses his knuckles. Oh.

“So, I was wondering,” Jim says, with his mouth still against John’s fingers, “if I could maybe, possibly, cash that raincheck from the other day.” John racks his brain trying to remember what raincheck he’s talking about, and when it hits him, he actually stutters out loud.

“Oh, uh,” John says. 

“I just, uh,” Jim says quickly, letting go of John’s hand, “only if you want. I just. Had a great time y’know. And I know you said it was also good for you. So. I’m up to do that again. But no pressure.” 

“I honestly thought you were joking,” John admits.

“Oh,” Jim says dejectedly. “That’s o--”

“Of course you can cash your rain check, jeez,” John interrupts, ducking out of his guitar strap and setting his tele against the wall before turning right back to climb into Jim’s lap. Jim seems awfully surprised given he just initiated things. Maybe he didn’t expect John to accept. John runs his fingers through Jim’s hair, pulls him up into a kiss, and Jim makes a quiet noise. John slides his thumbs along the arms of Jim’s glasses. “Do you want me to take these off?” he asks.

“Keep them on,” Jim says. “Then I can see you better.” John nods, kisses him again, slotting their open mouths together. He grinds into Jim’s lap, and Jim carefully places his hands on John’s thighs, wide and warm. John mouths kisses along Jim’s jaw, laves his tongue over his neck, and Jim cranes his neck back to give him the space. “Fuck. I jerked off about you last night.”

John practically short circuits. He snaps his head up, looks at Jim, whose chest is already heaving. Jim? Who is straight? Jerking off about John? Who is very much a dude?

“About _me_?” John asks. Jim’s face burns and he nudges his glasses up his nose. He looks as if he didn’t mean to go and blurt that out.

“Uh, yeah,” he admits, suddenly shy now that John’s looking him in the face. John starts unbuttoning Jim’s shirt, gently rocking his hips against him.

“Tell me what you thought about?” John asks, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. Jim pulls his arms out of it as John’s getting his own shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. He starts kissing along Jim’s collarbone, rakes his teeth over them, and Jim shudders.

“Just, uh,” Jim stutters, as John’s climbing down his body, “the other night.” John briefly wonders to himself if Jim’s ever had a girl play with his nipples or suck on them, but that’s a question for another time. He yanks the belt out of Jim’s pants.

“What about it?” John presses. He mostly wants to hear Jim talk dirty to him, but by the shade of red his face currently is, he doesn’t see it being likely.

“I don’t know,” Jim says, whining. “I’ve never described my jerk off fantasies to another guy before! Words are hard.” John slinks back up, kisses right in the center of his sternum.

“You’re doing fine,” John says. He catches Jim’s bottom lip between his teeth, just lightly. Jim turns his head, buries his face into John’s neck, breath hot on his skin.

“You just looked so good on my cock,” Jim says quietly into John’s hair. “I couldn’t not jerk off about it.” John shudders a little just hearing Jim say it.

“Do you want to fuck me again?” John asks, fingers in Jim’s hair, cradling the back of his head, keeping his face there. Seems easier for him to say it when he doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“I really want to fuck you again,” Jim admits. “Just. How determined you were to take the whole thing. Watching you ride it. And then that you came just from getting fucked. It’s a lot for a guy to handle thinking about is all.”

“How about I go get some lube and you can make me come with that big beautiful dick again, huh?” John asks, feeling Jim stiffen underneath him. “Work me open with your fingers, then fill me up full of cock. How’s that sound?” Jim nods quickly against his jaw.

“Yeah, please,” Jim says. John sits up, climbs off him.

“Take the rest of your clothes off,” John orders, and he gets off the bed to go to his suitcase. He’s taking his jeans and underwear off when he hears Jim get up, and when John turns around, Jim’s folding his pants standing next to the bed. Folding his pants. He sets them on the dresser next to John’s makeup bag.

“I’m trying not to make a mess in your room is all,” Jim says, as if to answer John’s questioning look. John huffs a laugh, pushes the lube bottle into his hands.

“Warm it up this time?” John remarks. Jim blushes, watches as John sits on the edge of the bed, lays back, and pulls his legs over to one side. “C’mere,” he says. “I don’t want to get lube all over the middle of the bed. I have to sleep in it later.” Jim seems to accept that explanation. He lubes his fingers first this time, slicks up John’s ass. He grabs onto John’s hip with the other hand, sinks a first finger in. John purrs, pulling a pillow down to rest his head on as Jim works him open. John wonders if there’s going to be more hookups after this, since it’s a repeat thing now, and if Jim would want to get him off like this, with just his fingers. John wouldn’t mind coming on Jim’s fingers. The second one takes a little stretch, but the third is in pretty quickly. Jim drags his fingers in and out, curls them, and John moans, grabbing at the sheets. “C’mon, fuck me,” John demands.

“Like this?” Jim asks. John nods, hooks an arm behind his knees to keep himself folded in half. Jim lubes his cock, has to squat down a bit to get level with the edge of the bed. At least he’s confident enough to actually put it in himself this time. Jim spreads John open with one hand and steadies himself with the other, pressing into him. He’s taking his time, and John’s mouth falls open as he slowly eases in.

“Fuck,” John huffs out. “Been wanting this again for four damn days.” He scoots himself down so his ass is over the edge of the bed, and Jim is able to hilt himself.

“Shit,” Jim whispers, more to himself than to John. He puts one hand on John’s hip and the other on his thigh, eyes trained down at where his cock is stretching him open so obscenely. John gasps as Jim starts moving, pulls him onto his cock as much as he’s pushing into him. John moans, pushes his hair back out of his eyes.

“God, I missed your fucking dick,” John groans out, sinking into the mattress. Jim pauses, adjusts, leans over him a bit more, reaching to grab onto John’s shoulder for leverage. He’s not really getting a full stroke. “Give me all of it, please--”

“Fuck,” Jim mumbles, stopping. “I’m too tall for this; I’m doing squats here.” John stifles a frustrated whine as Jim pulls out, straightens his legs, and yeah, it is a lot for him to lean down to.

“How do you want me?” John asks, rolling onto his back, parting his legs. Jim’s visibly distracted for a moment by this.

“Uh, just, on your stomach I guess?” Jim asks. “Sorry, that’s annoying--”

“Shut up; it’s fine,” John says, smiling. “You can’t help that you’re a tree.” He turns over, crawls up the bed on all fours, leaves his ass in the air, but Jim grabs his ankles, pulls his knees out from under him. John squeaks as he falls flat into the bed.

“Nah, like this,” Jim says. He climbs onto him, sitting on the back of John’s thighs. Oh. _Okay_. John arches his back a little just to give Jim something nice to look at. Jim sinks right back home, and he moans above him. It’s a tight fit with John’s legs together like this, and the angle is just right, and there’s the slightest bit of burn from the friction against his cock, trapped against the sheets under him, and John can’t stifle the cry that comes out of him. Okay. This is a good position. Jim plants his hands on John’s waist, his thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine, holding him in place. Jim’s easing into it, long, slow strokes, and John whimpers loudly, grabbing onto a pillow.

“C’mon, fuck me,” John whines. Jim shifts a little, a hand going to John’s shoulder, shoving himself into him down to the hilt. “Oh, shit,” John gasps. Jim feels even bigger like this somehow; John feels impossibly stretched open.

“You good?” Jim asks, his voice thin, and John kicks his legs against the bed.

“I’d be better if you would hurry up and _pound me into this frickin’ mattress_ ,” John demands, and Jim breathes out a laugh behind him. 

“Christ, fine,” Jim says. He draws back and slams right back in, and John actually squeaks. He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about it. Jim’s fucking him open, the smack of his hips against John’s ass loud over the buzzing of the AC unit. John’s mouth falls open, a weak moan choking out, Jim’s nails digging into his shoulder. John’s never been fucked like this, not with his hips flat on the bed and his legs together, and it’s a lot. He’s overwhelmed by it, the friction against the sheets, Jim railing into him.

“Fuck, Jim,” John moans, pushing back onto him, and Jim flattens himself on top of John, growling low against the back of his neck, arms coming up to grab onto John’s forearms in front of him. In the split second where Jim’s adjusting his angle, John can’t help but admire the way Jim’s hands look around his arms like that, chipped black nail polish and his tattoos. Then he’s right back to that rough, quick pace, shallow but hitting at just the right angle. John cries out, hands fisting in the pillow he’s clutching.

“You’re so fucking tight like this, fuck,” Jim whispers in John’s ear, and John lets a moan slip out just at the words. With Jim on top of him like this he’s helplessly pinned to the bed, and Jim’s being merciless about it this time, pounding into him. He only slows when he sits up a bit, slams home a few deep strokes all the way down.

“Fu-uck,” John grits out weakly, squirming on Jim’s cock. Jim lays into him again, skin sweat sticky, mouth latching to where his neck turns into his shoulder. He’s not moving, and John whines, rolls his hips back. Jim moans into John’s skin.

“Fuck, do that again,” Jim says, and John hums, starts grinding himself back on Jim’s dick, moving as much as he can under Jim’s weight. “That’s good; you’re so fucking _good_ ,” Jim’s murmuring, nails digging into John’s arms.

“Yeah, tell me, tell me how good,” John pants out, riding him from underneath, lifting his head to lay back into Jim’s shoulder. 

“You just -- _fuck_ \-- feel so fucking good, fuck,” Jim moans, shuddering. For a moment John thinks he’s going to come, but then Jim’s pulling John over with him so they’re on their sides, spooning. Jim’s hand is big on John’s waist when he grabs it, starts pounding into him again, his other arm underneath him reaching around to grab John’s neck. He doesn’t choke him, just holds onto him for leverage, and John melts into it, back into Jim’s chest. Jim’s holding him tight to his chest, mouthing at John’s exposed neck. John can only grab onto Jim’s arm, moaning loud enough he worries someone on the other side of the wall might hear him. The angle is too good, Jim’s going too deep; he can’t hold it. His orgasm hits before he realizes he was even close. John cries out, and Jim fucks him right through it as his cock spills onto his hip, onto the sheets. Jim makes a noise low in his throat, rides it out, and bites into John’s shoulder. John gasps.

“I want you to come on me,” John blurts out, suddenly very interested in the idea of having Jim mark him up like that and not just with his mouth and his teeth. “Pull out and come on me.”

“Yeah? Fuck, okay,” Jim says, breathless, chasing his own end. “Whatever you want, anything.” John moans softly, feeling raw and oversensitive, the enjoyable side of painful. He hears Jim’s breath catch and he’s pulling out quickly, pushing John back onto his stomach, and John arches a little as he feels Jim come on his back, hot and thick, Jim swearing under his breath. Jim has to grab a handful of John’s ass to steady himself, and when John looks back at him, his chest is heaving, hair hanging in front of his glasses, working the last drops out of his cock. John’s struggling to catch his breath and the way Jim’s mouth is hanging open isn’t helping.

“Holy shit,” John pants. 

“If you didn’t have to get film developed, I’d take a picture of that,” Jim says, falling back into the mattress on his back, gasping, taking his glasses off to wipe sweat off his face. “Holy shit is _right_.”

“I feel like I got hit by a bus,” John mumbles, shifting a little, feeling himself stick to the duvet. “Criminy, now I gotta wrestle the duvet off the bed.”

“I’ll do it for you when my legs work,” Jim says weakly. John doesn’t move, stays there for a long moment, face smushed into the pillow, feeling Jim’s come pool into his back dimples. “You want me to get a towel before that dries?”

“Nah,” John murmurs, “let it. I kinda wanna go downstairs and hit up the market with it on there under my shirt.” Jim makes a face like he’s never considered this as a possibility before, but he nods.

“Okay,” he says. He sighs. “Wanna do that again sometime?” John huffs a laugh.

“How about later tonight?” he asks. Jim grins at the ceiling.

//

They have a show night, and then a day off for the Fourth of July. John stays in Jim’s room the night before and has to hide between the bed and the wall when Paul and Joey come to collect Jim for, direct quote, “festivities”. Half the tour is crammed into the hotel pool area and there’s an ungodly amount of alcohol and various controlled substances to be shared. John doesn’t get officially invited, probably on account of his entire band thinking he’s no fun, with probably the exception of Ginger. Ginger would say John’s no fun but he’s alright with it.

John goes back to his room to shower the dried jizz off himself and shave and change clothes. He can hear people yelling a solid fifteen feet from the glass door, and when he opens it to go outside, he should be worried about the cops getting called. It’s broad daylight and illegal sparklers and pop rockets are getting set off on the lawn, and half the girls laying around are topless. It’s appropriately American to be in Texas on the Fourth of July, John thinks, as he pushes his sunglasses up his nose, grabs a Coke from the cooler, and sits himself at one of the tables with an umbrella to people watch.

John wonders if it’s an LA thing, learning to love people watching. He could spend hours sitting in a mall food court just watching all the different brands of weirdos and normies and business types and moms wrangling kids and shoplifters filter through. He takes inventory of his bandmates - Twiggy and Pogo are cutting lines on a glass table, Ginger is in the middle of a game of chicken, and Manson is… unaccounted for, which means he’s probably fucking some goth girl in the bathroom. John spots a few other familiar folks, Corey, Chris - he definitely mistakes Joey for a girl for half a second - and then Jim. John grins a little, hides it behind his fingers. He’s smoking a cigarette with Paul and a couple guys from other bands whose names he doesn’t know, shirtless and squinting in the sun. John sighs inwardly. He hopes he’s wearing sunscreen.

Jim seems to notice he’s being watched, and cranes his head around for a moment before settling on John. His face splits into a smile, and John waves his fingers back in response, grinning right back. Jim gives him a nod and goes back to his conversation. He looks… really good shirtless when he’s not in shitty hotel room lighting. John sips his drink, figures he can stare a little with his sunglasses on, but then is rudely interrupted by having the back of his head whacked. His glasses are knocked right off his head onto the table.

“Stop staring at him,” Manson says from behind him. John looks back over his shoulder at him. “He’s never gonna fuck you, you dumbass _bottom_.”

John just raises an eyebrow at him in response, takes a drink to keep himself from smirking. He wordlessly puts his glasses back on.

The predictable eventuates at some point, because the cops do show up, as they always do, but John and Jim are already in the elevator back upstairs by the time anybody gets Talked To. Benefits of sober living. John pushes his sunglasses up onto his head.

“We should go to your room,” John says, as the doors close. “Manson usually gets rid of drugs before the cops come by doing them and I would prefer not to have a coked up Manson in my room, and he also hasn’t noticed that we’re hanging out yet because he told me earlier you’d never fuck me and called me a dumbass bottom, so.” Jim looks at him.

“Seriously?” he asks. “He hasn’t noticed me watching every set?”

“He’s remarkably stupid for being such a genius,” John says. “Also I don’t think he knows you’re like. In Slipknot. Cuz y’know.” John gestures at his face to indicate the masks.

“Y’know, this tour is way more chill than last Ozzfest,” Jim says. John looks up at him. “Like. We wouldn’t hang out with anybody back then. We didn’t wanna make friends ‘cause we thought it would distract us from what we were there to do.” John scoff laughs, smooths down his shirt.

“Well, sorry to be such a distraction I guess,” John remarks.

“No, no, like, you’re good,” Jim says quickly. “You’re good. It’s just more chill now. I appreciate stuff more. It was our first tour and it doesn’t feel as soul-sucking this time, y’know. Like, it had to happen like that for us to be doing what we’re doing now but it was just. Not fun. This is fun.”

John doesn’t miss the implication that Jim thinks being around him is _fun_. It almost stings considering what a hard time his own band gives him for not being any fun. 

Nobody gets arrested, luckily, but John later hears a few _lewd conduct_ citations were given to a handful of the girls who were there with their tops off, and also Twiggy, who was apparently lighting his pubes on fire again.

//

Texas strip club laws are super weird, John learns, when they get to the first club at some point around midnight and get told at the door it’s BYOB. Full nude clubs, apparently, are not allowed to serve alcohol, and only topless clubs are given liquor licenses. It was agreed that this was, to quote Corey, “some stupid fucking bullshit”, but then it was agreed that as a whole, they’d rather be drunk and just see tits than not drunk and see whole naked girls. So they pile back into the van and Manson is going through the back pages of the copy of _The Dallas Observer_ he’d gotten from the FREE! TAKE ONE box in front of the club to find the nearest 21+ topless bar. John doesn’t truly care. It’s not like he’d drink even if he wasn’t the designated driver. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel, waiting for Manson to yell out an address for Jim to mash into the GPS unit John bought for precisely times like this. Jim’s sitting in shotgun, but his seat is all the way cranked up until his knees are against the glove box so that Corey could cram himself into the footwell behind it. John’s never shocked but always impressed at Manson’s ability to verbally Tetris eight people into a car for five.

“Did you find one yet?” Mick, who is wearing sunglasses at midnight, asks. “Ginger’s knees are in my ribs. Fuckin’ a.”

“Nah, these are all super lame,” Manson says. “Hey, check this out. ‘LET ME BE YOUR CARAMEL DREAM -- winky face -- NEW IN TOWN & READY TO PLAY. BUSTY FIVE THREE, BRUNETTE, HAZEL, 34 DD. I LOVE GIVING ORAL, ANAL, MASSAGES -- ANYTHING GOES -- _two_ winky faces -- LET'S SEE WHERE THE NIGHT TAKES US -- TS CHYNA, UNCUT, NINE INCHES, FULLY FUNCTIONAL & LUVS 2 CUM--”

Turns out Manson’s just sitting there reading lewd personals, so Craig confiscates the magazine and finds one himself (he whacks John in the shoulder with the page and says “ _here_ ”), and the GPS gets them there while only having to beep and yell “RECALCULATING ROUTE” at John once. John goes directly to the bar to announce that he’s designated driver so he can collect his free soda. Another perk of sober living, he thinks to himself. Jim gets a beer, and a table is staked out.

John’s not generally the kinda guy whose idea it is to go to a strip club - and now that he thinks of it, he’s not sure whose idea it was in the first place - but he’s also not gonna turn down the opportunity. John’s always a fan of boobs. He tips generously, admires from afar, and lets everybody else get dances. He only actually has gotten a dance in a strip club once, paid for by Pogo, on his birthday back during Mechanical touring in Japan a couple years ago. In retrospect, it was probably just because Pogo has a thing for Asian girls and also making John squirm.

John sips his soda, watches Mick tuck a tenner into a dancer’s g-string. Jim’s sitting next to him, eyes turned up at the dancer, watching her. John doesn’t know how he ended up sitting between Corey and Pogo, but he’s currently regretting whatever happened to land him here. He’d rather be between the two big idiots who clearly appreciate that sex workers are the backbone of society and not the two loud idiots who keep trying to get him to buy a dance, because he’s “no fun, man”.

“C’mon, dude,” Corey says, shoving John’s arm. “You don’t drink, you don’t do any drugs, you don’t smoke, you don’t eat meat. What the fuck is up with you dude. You gotta cut loose once in awhile.”

“Really,” John insists. “I’m good. I don’t need a girl to rub her butt on me. I’m perfectly happy to watch from back here.”

“Man, fuck it,” Corey says. “I’ll pay for it. Let me buy you a fuckin’ dance.” John sighs, drops his head back.

“Corey, c’mon,” John says.

“You don’t even know what the fuck you’re getting into, dude,” Pogo says to Corey. “He’ll nut in his pants like an eighth grader.” John rolls his eyes.

“Y’know what,” Corey says, standing up and raising his voice, “who wants to pitch in and get John a lap dance for being the designated driver?” 

“Oh, jeez louise,” John groans, planting his elbows into his knees and dropping his head into his hands.

“And it’s almost his birthday,” Manson adds. “Find the girl with the biggest tits here.” John sinks his fingertips into his temples, wishing he wasn’t so fucking _nice_.

“I’m never driving you guys anywhere ever again,” John says.

After a few minutes of wrangling together cash and Corey hunting down the bustiest dancer and also buying him another soda, John reluctantly gives in. A brunette in a pair of hot shorts and a sheer lace bra sits in his lap.

“I’m Purity,” she says, and Corey all but starts hollering.

“No way,” he says. “I’m in a band; we have a song called Purity -- yo, Mick, Jim, Craig, her name’s Purity!”

“That’s nice, sweetie,” she says. John actually snort laughs.

“Me and this idiot are in Marilyn Manson,” Pogo says. Purity looks much more interested in this.

“Yeah?” she asks. “That’s cool.”

“Hey,” Manson says, sounding wounded. Purity glances back at him, clearly doesn’t recognize him bare-faced, gives him a forced smile, and turns back to John.

“You’re cute,” she tells John. “Can I put a song on for you?”

John, despite being awkward about lap dances in general and also having an audience, ends up thoroughly enjoying his dance. It’s hard to be mad at Corey when there’s boobs in his face, and John just generally loves women. John tips Purity extra anyway, because he’s like that, and figures after being made into a spectacle, the rest of them will leave him alone until they need to leave.

John’s just finishing his drink when someone walks behind him, bops him on the shoulder in passing. When he looks up, Jim’s headed in the direction of the bathrooms. He excuses himself and goes in after him.

Jim is already unzipping at a urinal when John pushes the door open, and John has a momentary panic, because how many spaces should he leave between them? Surely it isn’t weird to piss next to each other given they’ve literally had actual sex before, but given it’s a public bathroom. John settles for leaving one urinal empty between them, which Jim snort laughs at.

“Pft,” he goes, “you know you don’t have to pee like, all the way over there.” He’s had a couple drinks. “I’ve had your dick in my mouth. It’s not weird.” John smiles to himself.

“Yeah, but given this is a public bathroom and nobody needs to know that,” John remarks, and Jim sort of nods. He finishes up and washes his hands. “Y’know, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard Craig talk, earlier in the van.” Jim does that stupid bright laugh that makes John’s chest hurt a little.

“Y’know, sometimes he scares me more when he does talk,” Jim remarks. John smiles to himself, zips up. “Pretty crazy that girl’s name is Purity,” Jim says, when John joins him at the sink.

“Yeah,” John says, soaping up his hands. “Of course the girl with triple D’s calls herself Purity. Man. I love girls.” 

“Me too,” Jim sighs. “Is there a reason Manson went looking for the bustiest girl in the club?” John blushes furiously, tries to hide behind his shoulder, but Jim’s looking at him in the mirror anyway.

“I just, uh,” John stutters, still a little flustered from the dance, “happen to like girls with big boobs is all.” Jim is wiping his hands off on his jeans, grins.

“Your face, man,” Jim says. “Y’know that episode of _Tom and Jerry_ where Tom sees that girl cat and his eyes pop out of his head and his pupils are hearts? That’s exactly what you looked like.”

“Oh, gosh,” John says, hiding behind his forearm so he doesn’t have to look at Jim’s stupid smirk. “She totally felt my boner. I’m so _embarrassed_.” It’s quiet for a moment, and John peers over his arm, sees that Jim is just kind of standing there. John glances down, notices Jim’s hands shoved way too deep in his pockets. Jim sees John see, and there aren’t even any honest words exchanged, just Jim going “uh”, and then John grabbing Jim by the lapels of his jacket and Jim picking him clear up off the floor by his ass, hauling him into one of the stalls and not even locking the door, just forcing it shut by shoving John’s back against it and kissing him, pinning him to it. They make out like that, needy and heated, till the friction of John’s boner against the flat pressure of Jim’s stomach actually makes him come in his pants, and he would be way more embarrassed by it if Jim wasn’t so fucking _into it_.

“I can’t believe I just came in my pants,” John’s saying, as Jim is letting him down from the door. He checks himself. Mercifully, no leaks.

“Yeah,” Jim says, sounding very much like he also just came. “That was… pretty hot.” John swats him, tries not to grin too much. This stupid heterosexual driving him up the fucking wall, or at least pinning him against it. He looks up at Jim, his eyes a little glassy, mouth red and obscene, and John feels the air huff out of him.

“You want me to jerk you off?” John asks. “You look...” Fucked out. Desperate. Needy. John considers all of these words, but settles on “...wound up.”

“Nah,” Jim says. “I’m good. It’s fine. Thanks though.” John looks at him, but Jim doesn’t crack, just steps back a little so John can open the door for them to get out of the stall.

John drives the whole lot of drunk idiots plus Jim back to the venue, where they all pile onto their respective buses for the travel day tomorrow. John bites the bullet and throws his underwear away instead of sending them with the laundry. 

// 

Prior to this tour, John has always treasured travel days. Where he can watch movies in his bunk, play guitar in the back lounge, sleep, and watch Pogo play _Tomb Raider Chronicles_. Maybe read _Playboy_ for the articles and stealth jerk off.

Nope. John’s practically _simmering_. Laying in his bunk, watching _Texas Chainsaw_ , wishing he was in a hotel room somewhere with Jim. And only partially because of the air conditioning. 

John’s still figuring Jim out. Figuring out what words he’s leaving out of his sentences, what his littlest facial expressions indicate, what he actually thinks of John. Why he’s still fucking John. Why the hell he won’t just accept a reciprocal handjob after making John come. He can’t blink without seeing Jim’s stupid obscene face behind his eyelids, kiss-red lips, glazed eyes half lidded. John wonders, somewhere in the corner of his head, whether Jim was able to jerk off on the bus last night or if he’s going to risk a venue shower wank tomorrow morning or what. 

John’s not a sadist; he doesn’t see himself as a dom or even a switch. But he doesn’t mind the idea of Jim being terribly, agonizingly pent up when he finally gets his hands on him again.

They get to the hotel in Atlanta some time after it gets dark, and John doesn’t see Jim. He doesn’t see Jim until he’s powdering down his Ben Nye clown white in his dressing room before Manson’s set, enough white dust falling onto the vanity that it wouldn’t look out of place in _The Godfather_. There’s a knock on his door, and John yells for whoever it is to come in, it’s open, but he’s in his underwear. The door cracks and John turns, sees Jim peering in.

“Hey,” Jim says. “Can I come in?” John nods, and Jim slides in, shuts the door behind him. John distinctly hears the lock click shut.

“Did you just get off stage?” John asks, closing his loose powder tub. He rifles through a bunch of identical MAC cream paint compacts, looking for black, and Jim doesn’t say anything, so he glances back at him. Jim’s eyes are on John’s legs, on his torn thigh highs. He’d run out of fishnets, so this was his last pair of anything to wear under his trench. By the looks of it, Jim definitely just got off stage; he’s still got black face paint around his eyes and his hair is wet with sweat and water and god knows what else. He’s got his mask in his hand and he’s still in his jumpsuit. “What’s up?” John asks, voice quieter.

“I, uh,” Jim says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I really. Uh. Can’t wait till we get to the hotel later.” John bites back a grin. 

“Well, we’re doing tourist stuff tomorrow, but we should have a hotel room to ourselves all afternoon,” John says, popping open the compact and scrubbing a brush that probably hasn’t been washed since there was a nine in the year into it. “Got a whole night to mess around.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jim says, practically whining, and John’s painting a line diagonally across his face when he realizes what Jim means. Oh.

“Right now?” John asks, looking at him. Jim’s literally squeezing himself through his coveralls and John bites the end of his makeup brush. “I’m… it’s kind of a bad time,” he says. “I have to go on in like. Half an hour. And I need to be ready in fifteen. That’s not enough time and I already have my face on.” Jim looks around anxiously. “We can cut out of here early before Ozzy finishes his set if you want,” John adds. “Or. y’know. Just come back here. Bang while everybody else is preoccupied.” Jim cracks a smile, leans forward off the door, goes over behind John, tosses his mask onto the vanity. Jim rests his chin on the top of John’s head, which would be really sweet if Jim’s boner wasn’t pressing hard against the curve of John’s back. “Jim,” John says, and he nuzzles into John’s clean hair with his sweaty face. Ugh.

“What if I just rubbed off against you?” Jim asks quietly, his voice behind John’s ear. John feels his face blush under his makeup.

“I,” John says, Jim’s hand nearly covering John’s kanji tattoo entirely when he splays it out on his chest. His nails are freshly painted. Must’ve done it on the bus yesterday. “I mean. I have to finish doing my face.” Jim’s definitely very much rubbing his hard dick against John’s back, even if just a little bit.

“You can,” Jim says, loosening the neck strap of his jumpsuit enough to unbutton it. John’s pretty sure Jim is the only one of them who actually fastens the neck strap, he’s thinking, as Jim is unzipping it. John leans back into bare chest, his skin sticking, smelling very much of sweat in the most appealing way possible. John can’t hide the way he’s half hard in his underwear in the mirror. He’s still only got half the X on his face, though.

“Jim,” John says. His breath hitches as the hot weight of Jim’s cock lays into him, right between the dimples at the base of his spine. “Shit.” He can’t help but reach behind him with the hand that’s not clenched around his makeup brush, trap his dick between his palm and his back. Jim’s hips jerk up reflexively, John’s eyes on him in the mirror. Clearly he didn’t have a chance to jerk off between the incident in the strip club bathroom and now.

“Fuck,” Jim says, voice tight, frustrated. “Please? It’s been like four days.”

“We don’t have time to fuck,” John says, looking at Jim’s tattooed bicep behind his own. Regardless, he’s not about to let go of Jim’s dick.

“I know,” Jim says. “Just. Let me put it between your thighs.” John’s eyes dart back to their reflections, and while he’s never actually considered this in the realm of outercourse possibilities, it does sound very, very appealing. And doable. 

“Jeez, okay, gosh,” John says, dropping his brush onto the counter. He briefly considers grabbing something to stand on, but decides why bother and rocks up onto his toes, pushing himself up with his hands on the edge of the counter. Jim lowers himself just a bit, slots his cock between John’s legs, and John closes them around him, trapping him in. Jim’s breath catches in John’s ear, his mouth latching to where his neck turns into his shoulder, rutting into him. It’s dry and a little awkward, but when Jim pushes forward a little, John can see the head of his cock between his thighs in their reflection. Jim’s fingers are digging into the nylon of his stockings, and John’s mouth falls open. Oh. Alright. Jim actually whimpers into John’s neck. John’s hard in his underwear by now, given up any hope of finishing his makeup in a decent way on time.

“Fuck,” Jim grits out, smearing his face into John’s shoulder, John watching Jim’s hands in the mirror. One of his fingers is hooked into a hole, threatening to rip further. John wouldn’t mind that. He’s never seen Jim this wound up before.

“Wow, jeez--” John stutters out, a little overwhelmed by how desperately Jim is fucking the tight space between his thighs. “You’re. Gosh. That’s cool. That’s really hot.” John inwardly curses himself for being so goddamn lost for words at the moment, but Jim’s breathless in his ear, which is distracting. John grips the counter edge a little tighter. “Man. I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you later.”

“Mmf,” Jim says into John’s shoulder, and John can see his cock is leaking. _Shit_. Okay.

“Yeah. Shit,” John says. He’s glad his hands are occupied holding him up so he’s not tempted to try to jerk off. Definitely no time for that. “I’m so gonna suck your dick later.” Jim actually moans at that, turning his head to muffle it in John’s hair. “Yeah. Probably the second we get to the hotel room. Might not even make it to the bed.” John reaches down and Jim stills with his hips all the way rutted up against John’s thighs, pink cock head appearing between white expanses of skin, and John rubs it gently, just once. He brings his fingers back up to his mouth, sucks on them.

“God, fuck,” Jim mumbles into his shoulder. “You’re so hot.”

“Keep going,” John says, deciding fuck it, and shoving makeup compacts out of the way to lay over the vanity. Jim places a big hand on John’s back, the other still clamped around his thigh tight enough that John’s confident it’ll bruise. “I’m gonna just. Shove your back into the door and get on my knees and fuckin’. Suck your dick.”

“I’m gonna come,” Jim says, through gritted teeth, and John tries to tighten his legs together more, can actually feel when Jim’s cock jerks. Jim digs his nails into John’s back as he comes, and John feels him spill hot on his thighs, soaking into the nylon of his stockings. After a long moment, John rocks back down onto his heels, stands upright, leaning back into Jim, looking at the mess left on his thigh highs.

“Shoot, I should change these,” John says, and instantly he remembers that these are his last pair. “Oh no.”

“Huh?” Jim asks, still hazy from his orgasm.

“Oh gosh,” John says, wanting very much to smear his hands into his face, sink his palms into his eye sockets. “I don’t have any other stockings.”

“Oh,” Jim says pointedly, coming back instantly. “Oh shit. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, shit,” John says, trying to wipe off some, licking it off his fingers. “I mean. Nobody’s gonna be able to see it from the audience right? Heck.”

“I don’t think so,” Jim says. He helps himself to one of John’s makeup wipes and starts smearing it into his eyelids, cleaning off black paint. “Dude. I’m sorry. Fuck.”

“It’s not like I stopped you,” John huffs. He grabs his makeup brush again to finish the X on his face, swipes on black lipstick and wipes it with his fingers so it looks bad on purpose. He gets into his boots and is still zipping his trench when he opens the door to run for the stage. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Jim says. John pauses there, watches him zip his jumpsuit back up halfway. God. If he wasn’t so hot, he’d be pissed. “I’ll see you.” Jim smiles at him, and John has to tear himself away in order to be sidestage in a timely enough manner that his tech doesn’t ask him where the hell he’s been.

John has guitar on and is standing with Ginger and Pogo, waiting to go on, the piano of Count To Six and Die playing over the PA. John’s wound up as hell, ready to just play this stupid show and hope the flash from the photographers in the pit won’t light up the jizz on his stockings like an episode of _CSI_.

“What the fuck is all over your neck?” Ginger asks. John turns a little, and Ginger drags his hand over John’s shoulder. He holds it up. Black grease paint is on his fingers. “How’d you get black on the back of your neck?” John swallows dryly. Oh. _Oops_. Probably should’ve checked for that. 

“No idea,” John says, wiping at his neck, feeling sore spots where Jim bites into him all the time. Mercifully, the piano stops, and John shoves his in ear monitors in.

John’s able to get out of his own head and into his guitar pretty easily. He doesn’t even think about the way the nylon is sticking to his legs till he has a break to push his hair back, turns to his left, and sees Jim’s stupid fucking face standing there next to Dita. John’s so thrown, so confused as to how he’s already right there by the second verse of the first song in a t-shirt and jeans looking terribly ordinary and not at all like he just came all over John’s legs, that he almost forgets he’s supposed to play. 

Between songs, John throws Jim a middle finger under his arm. Jim just grins.

//

They spend the better half of the day off in Atlanta doing tourist garbage. The nice thing about being essentially a hired gun is that only the really in tune Manson fans recognize John, or the occasional guy who knows him from 2wo. He gets all the benefits of getting to travel and do his favorite thing for a living and make decent money while still being able to walk around cities like a normal human.

Some of the guys from Slipknot and a few other smaller bands on tour organize an aquarium trip, and Jim invites John, which sort of surprises him given he’d assumed they’d be spending the entire day in their hotel room, only breaking to go downstairs for more Gatorade from the vending machine, given Jim’s state last night. 

John did get that blowjob in, at least.

They’d split off earlier, figuring they don’t want to get kicked out along with the rest of them in case somebody decides to put their clown shoes on and act like an idiot. Bets are still out on whether it’ll be Sid or Corey that gets them booted. The aquarium has one of those long tunnels with a moving walkway where the fish can swim over your head, and John is standing in the middle of it, face turned up where the sunlight is casting blue through the water. There’s no one else there, weekday midday emptiness, and Jim leans against the armrest that’s moving with the track, the movement catching John’s glance. When John looks, Jim’s already looking at him. His skin looks grey, blue lines squiggling across his face, his white t-shirt. Jim smiles, looks away. 

It almost feels like a date, in some kind of way, John thinks.

Before they part to their respective buses for the night and tomorrow’s travel day, they swap cell phone numbers. John gets a text from Jim when they’re somewhere in the middle of the fucking woods in South Carolina, just _“i had a good time ystrdy”_ , and John doesn’t reply, because he’s going to see Jim in Norfolk in a couple hours anyway.

Also, he's still not sure how to compose a text message.

//

The East coast is sweaty. John can handle hot weather, having lived in LA for so long now, but humidity. He can’t do humidity. He is _sweaty_ and his legs are sticking together as he’s walking offstage. He’s going to change out of his stage clothes, get on the car back to the hotel, crank the AC, turn the shower on as cold as it will go, and attempt to refrigerate himself until bus call tomorrow morning.

Of course, Jim is sitting in the hotel lobby, reading a magazine, when Manson camp gets there. As soon as Jim looks at John, John knows why he’s waited up for him.

“It’s too hot,” John says, as they’re standing in the elevator, which is going to John’s floor and not Jim’s, because John can’t say no to him. “I smell disgusting. You smell disgusting. We’re already sweaty and we’re just gonna be sweatier. Sex is already gross even if you’re fresh out of the shower.”

“We don’t _have_ to,” Jim says, for the billionth time, and John looks up at him. Jim gets fidgety when he really wants to touch John, because he has very little self control when it comes to keeping his hands to himself. He’s kneading his fret palm with the opposite thumb, teeth gnawing into his bottom lip. John sighs.

“C’mere,” he says, wanting to get one good kiss in before the elevator door opens. He reaches up and grabs a fistful of Jim’s hair, pulls him down to mash their lips together, and Jim lets an embarrassingly loud moan out into John’s mouth. John stops, looks at him. “Are you okay?”

“Holy shit,” Jim says, his face going so red it’s almost purple. He’s still hunched down to John’s height, and John notices him shift awkwardly, hand entirely too deep in his jeans pocket.

“Do you have a boner?” John asks, and Jim responds with a noncommittal noise, clearly not wanting to admit it. Which is when the lightbulb in John’s head flicks on. “Has nobody ever pulled your hair before?”

“I-- no?” Jim asks, and John is sort of surprised a noise that tiny can come out of someone so large. John considers it briefly, yanks Jim’s hair again, craning his head over to one side, and Jim gasps, makes this obscene face, then quickly turns it into a cringe. 

John only lets go because the elevator dings and if anybody is on the other side of the door he’s going to die instantly. Jim leans into the wall, looking winded. John grabs him by the collar and the next thing he knows is he’s flattening Jim into the mattress, hands up under his shirt. John pulls it off him, Jim’s hair sticking up in the back.

“Okay, so no girl’s ever pulled your hair,” John says, winding his fingers into it. Jim seems to brace for him to pull again, but he doesn’t. “What else haven’t you done?” Jim stutters a bit.

“I don’t know,” he says dumbly. “Most things.” John sighs. Heterosexuality must be so _boring_.

“But you like when I pull your hair,” John comments, fisting his hands, tugging gently. Jim makes a soft pained noise, too loud to be a whimper but too quiet to be a proper moan.

“It hurts but like, in a nice way,” Jim murmurs, cheeks still stained red. John nods, pulls enough that he has to bend his neck back. “Ah,” he gasps.

“I’ll stop if you say so,” John says, mouths wet kisses over his throat. Jim’s practically panting already, which John finds _interesting_. John rests his weight down into Jim’s lap and digs his teeth into Jim’s neck, earning himself an honest moan. Jim arches up into John’s ass, and John grinds down into him, scrapes his teeth down to his collarbone and bites again, yanks on his hair.

“Fuck,” Jim grits out. John can feel how hard he is.

“I never really pinned you for a masochist,” John remarks, latching onto Jim’s shoulder. He figures he can leave a mark if it’ll be under his coveralls. He sucks hard, and Jim actually whines.

“Me either?” he says, voice rising into a question. “But then again. Nobody ever. Bit me.” John gnaws into his skin and Jim squirms under him. “Fuck.”

“Okay, so I’m sure you’ve never had somebody’s fingers in your butt then,” John says, sitting up a bit, admiring the crescent of red in Jim’s skin. Jim shakes his head. “You ever been tied up?”

“No,” Jim says.

“Ever had sex in public where you could get caught?” John asks.

“No,” Jim says.

“You ever spanked somebody or like, hit them sexually?” John asks. Jim sighs, shakes his head. “ _Any_ kinda role play stuff?” Another head shake. “Worn a collar?” Nope. “Criminy. Fuzzy handcuffs?”

“No?” Jim asks, as if he doesn’t know what John’s talking about.

“Ever been choked?” John asks. Jim opens his mouth, goes to say something, but shakes his head.

“No - god, Jesus Christ, you’re the worst,” Jim says. “You’re the fucking worst, you know that?” John grins, leans down to kiss him, trails his lips down Jim’s jaw. “I mean. Sometimes I hold my breath though,” Jim says, quietly, into John’s hair. John pauses.

“Wait, hold on,” John says, sitting back up. “Hold your breath when?” Jim squirms under him, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“I dunno, like,” Jim says, pulling a face. “Y’know. When I.” He drops his voice, eyes trained on John’s arm. “Jerk off. And sometimes also when I’m fucking girls.” John squints at him.

“So that’s how you knew exactly when to let go of my neck when you were choking me that first time,” John says, grinning. Jim bites his lips together.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “If you let go at the right time then you breathe in really hard and get a headrush and it’s like. Better. More intense. Y’know.” John knows.

“Jeez louise,” he says. He threads his fingers through Jim’s hair and pulls, slowly this time, slow enough that Jim sinks into it, leans into the touch, a little glassy eyed. His mouth falls open and John kisses him, flattens his body into Jim’s. Jim feels pliant underneath him, and John dares to slide a hand down, wrap around his neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just leaves his hand there, feels for his pulse points with his thumb and index. “You shake your head no if you need me to stop,” John says, and Jim’s hands are on John’s thighs, gripping, as he nods.

Permission. 

John tightens his grip, feeling Jim’s breath catch, not quite cutting his air off. Jim gasps as much as he can, still kissing John, bringing his hands up to grab at his hips. John holds it, feels Jim shift under him. When he lets go after a few seconds, Jim inhales sharply through his nose, moans into the kiss.

John’s not sure how he got so lucky that this is the straight guy who wants to experiment with him be _this one_.

“Fuck, yes,” John murmurs, squeezing Jim’s throat again, forefinger and thumb digging into his pulse. John grinds his hips down into Jim’s and his mouth hangs open obscenely, green eyes dark. He holds longer this time, Jim’s thumbs pressing into his hip bones. 

“Fuck,” Jim whispers, with just the air in his mouth, barely a sound. John releases, and Jim pants, craning his neck up, and John kisses his open mouth, laving his tongue into Jim’s, tightening his fist in his hair, pulling. Jim moans into it.

“I’m gonna ride your cock while I choke you out,” John says, and Jim actually whimpers. Fuck. Okay. “Stay,” John says, clambering off him, and Jim stays. Shit. John’s not entirely sure he’s driving anymore, or if he’s on autopilot, stripping at the end of the bed and rushing to get lube. When he climbs back onto the bed, he yanks Jim’s jeans and underwear down, not bothering to get them all the way off because he can’t possibly deal with something as complicated as shoelaces right now. John climbs up, lays himself into Jim’s body, skin on skin.

“I’m like, _stupid_ hard right now,” Jim says, his face hot red, and John smiles.

“I can feel that,” John says, grinding into him. He pops the lube cap, reaches back to slick his ass over, and Jim slides his arm around him and pushes his hand out of the way.

“I got you,” he says, and John nods, letting Jim hook a finger into him. It’s not the most convenient angle, so John scoots up a bit, and Jim doesn’t have to strain so bad. John grabs into his hair again.

“Fuck, yeah,” John whispers, rutting against the flat of Jim’s stomach. He thumbs over Jim’s bottom lip and Jim pushes a second finger in. John purrs, kisses him, tugs his hair. Jim gasps against his mouth, hurriedly working John open. He’s obviously desperate, breathing hard, mouthing kisses at John’s lips between breaths. John reaches back to grab Jim’s cock and he lets out a little hiss of air between clenched teeth. “I can take it,” John says.

“You sure?” Jim asks, and John nods, so he pulls his fingers out.

“I got it,” John says, shifting back down and onto Jim’s cock, sinking down the length. He’s far more used to the stretch now, even though this is a little too tight and a little too dry, but the way Jim gasps out, breath ragged, makes it worth it. John eases himself into Jim’s lap, and Jim grabs at his ribs, eyes half lidded. “I got you,” John whispers, closing both his hands around Jim’s throat. He tilts his head back, and the submissive gesture gives John a rush of adrenaline. John starts rocking his hips and traps Jim’s moan in his throat, gripping tight. Jim’s lids flutter, eyes practically rolling back into his head. Fuck. Fuck. John’s riding him hard, and Jim whimpers, lips parted, kiss red. After a long moment, John lets him breathe, and Jim gasps, pants.

“Oh my god,” Jim says, his eyes meeting John’s for a split second, wide and green. John bites back a grin as he really lays into choking him this time, pinning him to the bed, and Jim’s fucking up into him just as much as John’s rolling his hips down. John feels Jim’s nails digging into his ribs.

“Are you gonna come?” John asks, and Jim nods quickly, and John nods back, struggling to focus on the right second to let go. Jim shifts under him, reflexively grabs John’s wrists, surely struggling in earnest now, and John looks Jim right in the eye and Jim’s staring back through him, slipping off somewhere else. “Come inside me,” John says, and Jim shudders and comes, sucking in big gasps of air when John finally lets go, fucking hard up under him.

“Fuck,” Jim moans, voice sharp and raw, and John feels him spilling inside of him. John rides him through it, reaches down to get himself off, coming around his spent cock. Jim whimpers, drapes his arm across his face, hisses when John sits up off him.

“Oh, shit,” John says, feeling himself leak back onto Jim’s dick. He pushes Jim’s hair back out of his eyes and he’s blinking, bringing himself back. “You good? You with me?” John asks, still shaky.

“I think so,” Jim huffs out, breathless. “Holy shit. Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” John says, pushing sweat-sticky hair back off his forehead. “I’ll get the towel.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, “I don’t think my legs are gonna work.”

John manages to get to the bathroom sink, yanking a towel off the rack. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, streaks of red scraped across his rib cage, spots that will surely bruise and a couple that’ll come up as blood blisters.

//

When Jim rolls back in after his smoke break in the morning, John still hasn’t bothered putting clothes back on.

“Sorry I took a while; I was talking to Corey,” Jim says, and then he looks at John, who is still very much naked. “I thought you said you were getting dressed so we could go get food,” Jim says. John whines in response, face down in the pillow, pulling the blankets that are half covering him up further, even though his entire bottom half is still uncovered.

“My thighs hurt,” John says. “I don’t want to walk to IHOP anymore.”

“Why do your thighs hurt?” Jim asks patiently. John lifts his head, looks at him.

“Because riding dick is really exhausting, okay,” John says. “And I’d rather order shitty room service than walk half a mile right now.” Jim’s face goes from very confused to breaking into a grin, scoffing a laugh. He rubs his palm into his eye socket.

“Okay, fine,” Jim says. “I’m sorry you’re sore.” He takes his hoodie off and tosses it at John’s bag. John considers stealing that later in the possible case of a gas station run.

“No you’re not,” John says, “and neither am I. If I’m sore that means it was good.” He swears he sees Jim blush from here. John reaches an arm out, makes a grabby hand at Jim, who is no doubtedly still sort of mortified about last night’s turn of events, because he just hooks one finger under all four of John’s. “I’ve been thinking. And I wanna come on your fingers.” John’s tone is decidedly casual, and Jim blinks a few times.

“Do you mean like, jizz on my hands or are you saying you want me to finger you?” Jim asks, and John laughs, drawing him in closer by his hand, then taking his wrist.

“I’m not opposed to the former, but I was referring to the latter,” John says, pulling Jim’s wrist till he can reach his elbow, and Jim has to bend to let John keep reeling him in. “You always end up fucking me before I can get off from you fingering me. I’ll even say please.” Jim lets himself be dragged down enough that he has to put one knee on the edge of the bed and a hand on the headboard.

“You know I’m not gonna tell you no,” Jim remarks. John’s chest swells a little, and Jim drops his forehead against John’s.

“I’ll suck you off after,” John murmurs, and he thinks he sees Jim bite his lips together. “It’s been too long since you came in my mouth.” Jim snort laughs.

“It’s been like two days,” Jim says.

“Yeah, like I said, too long,” John says. Jim laughs in earnest at that, and John rakes his fingers through his hair, kisses him open mouthed, a little messy. “Will you take your clothes off first?” he asks.

“It’s nothing much to look at,” Jim says, but he stands back upright anyway, taking his shirt off. He tosses it onto the floor with his hoodie and starts undoing his jeans.

“I happen to like looking at you naked, thank you very much,” John says, as Jim steps out of his jeans and underwear. Half hard. John smirks to himself, rolls onto his back, reaches down to touch himself, as Jim’s walking over to the table he left the bag with the lube on.

“I don’t think I’ve had this much sex on a regular basis since like, ninety-three,” Jim remarks, as John’s admiring his back, watching his shoulderblades shift under the skin. The dip of his spine, down to the round of his ass, the thickness of his thighs. Jim says something else, but John sits up a little. Hold up.

How long has Jim had a really nice ass?

“Where did your ass come from?” John asks. “Jeez louise.” Jim turns back to look at him, and from the quarter angle John can fully see the curve of it, the crease where ass turns into thigh. Holy shit.

“Uh,” Jim says. “It’s always been mine? I dunno.”

“That’s not fair,” John says, gesturing at him. “What the hell. How come you hide that?”

“Well. I mean.” Jim pauses. “You’re looking at it right now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, definitely,” John says, wanting very much to shove his face in it.

“Cool. Well, that’s what matters, then,” Jim says, turning back to the bag, and John stares a little.

Well. He guesses so.

Jim finds the bottle of lube and turns back to him, knees into the bed, grabs John by the thighs and pulls him down closer to him. 

“If we’re gonna talk about how hot one of us is, it should be you, anyway,” Jim says, brushing his knuckles up the underside of John’s cock, which jumps rather embarrassingly at the contact. “I think we both know you’re the good-looking one here.”

“What can I say?” John remarks, smiling. “Even a nine pales in comparison to a ten.” Jim does that dumb laugh that makes John’s heart hurt and wipes his hand down his face.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t make that terrible joke and finger you now, okay?” Jim says, and John giggles.

“Yeah, that wasn’t my finest,” he says. “Go ahead. When you’re ready.”

Jim slides a big hand over John’s hip, moves his thigh up to spread him open, and John reaches down to hold it out of the way. Jim remembers to put the lube on his hand first this time, thankfully (he’s learning), and smears it into John’s ass, rubs into him, and John sighs, whines. Jim gets the bottle out of the way and sinks a finger in, his free hand holding onto John’s waist, and John purrs, melts into it. The second finger goes just as easy, and Jim’s curling them into him, making John shudder.

“Shit,” he whispers, digging his nails into the back of his thigh. 

“You’re already leaking,” Jim comments. John looks, a smear of precome wet on his stomach, and Jim ducks his head down to kiss his knee. It’s a remarkably tender gesture given the context.

“You try getting fingered by a fucking hot guy sometime and see if you don’t leak like a faucet,” John retorts, and Jim smiles against John’s skin.

“You look good like this,” Jim murmurs, working John undone with his fingers, the ones on his fret hand. Is Jim left handed? Jim laughs, and John realizes he asked that out loud. “Yeah, but I play guitar normal. Weird right? Imagine how surprised I was when I met Paul and he told me there were left handed guitars and I’d been playing backwards.”

“God, don’t talk about Paul right now -- your stupid _fingers_ ,” John whines. “More, _please_.”

“Yeah, hang on,” Jim says, reaches for the lube bottle. He pulls his fingers out, adds more lube, pushes three in this time. John arches off the bed, moans in earnest. “This is why I always end up fucking you, y’know. ‘Cause I could be watching you do this with my dick inside you, and that’s more mutually beneficial.”

“Fuck,” John grits out. “Shut up.” He whines, pushes back onto Jim’s fingers.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jim says, bringing his hand to John’s cock, and John shudders hard when he squeezes the edge off. “That alright?”

“Yeah,” John moans, nodding quickly. 

“I’m gonna go down on you,” Jim says, and John flops uselessly back into the pillows with a pathetic whimper.

“I’m gonna die,” John says, but Jim’s tongue is on his dick already, mouthing wet along the underside. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“You good?” Jim asks, fingers of one hand fucking him open, the other tight around the base of his length, and John’s pretty sure he’s on the edge of unconsciousness. 

“ _Never better,_ ” John says thinly, breathless. He can’t possibly look down, especially not when he feels the wet heat of Jim’s mouth close around his cock, and John cries out, free hand grabbing onto Jim’s wrist against his thigh. His hips stutter a little and he’s nearing the edge and he inhales so sharply he almost chokes on it. “ _Jim_.”

“Mhm,” Jim hums around his dick, permission, and John’s orgasm crashes into him. He cries out, nails digging into Jim’s wrist as he fingers him through it, even though John surely clenches tight enough to force him out.

“Fuck, don’t swallow it, fuck,” John says desperately, legs shaking as Jim rides it out for him. As soon as he regains control of his limbs he grabs Jim by the hair and folds himself down, yanking Jim into a sloppy kiss, licking his own come out of his mouth. Jim kisses him back, climbing up John’s body till he’s laying back down, and Jim’s cock rests hot against John’s stomach. “You better fuck my mouth _hard_ ,” John pants out.

Jim does, with John’s hands wrapped around him grabbing at his ass the whole time.

//

They have a four hour drive across Florida, which goes by surprisingly fast. John’s more than happy when they finally get to the hotel in mid-afternoon, dumping his bags off in his room and then going back downstairs to the lobby to wait for Slipknot’s bus to catch up, but when he walks past the hotel bar, he hears Manson’s voice, and glances in to see him sitting around with Jim, Shawn, Sid, and Corey. John’s sort of surprised they beat them here, but he doesn’t question it. He just walks over wordlessly, drops himself into the chair next to Jim, which is conveniently unoccupied. Jim gives him the most polite, unassuming smile possible. Sid’s downing a beer and Corey’s got his head on his arms on the table, half-listening to whatever it is Shawn and Manson are currently talking about.

“Anyway, I just read a lot on tour and thought you might be interested,” Shawn’s saying. “I’ll lend you the book if you want.”

“I’ll lend you some of my Crowley books, too,” Manson says. He looks to John. “Hey faggot.” John rolls his eyes. 

“You both being nerds?” John remarks back. Manson flicks a coaster at him.

“That’s fuckin’ rude, man,” Corey says to Manson. Already fucked up. John would worry about him more if the entire tour wasn’t usually in some state of fucked up.

“I kinda signed up for verbal abuse when I joined this band,” John says, picking at his nail polish. “What were you guys talking about?” Jim’s hand rests on the seat of John’s chair next to his leg, and John glances over, but Jim’s looking at Shawn.

“I’ve been reading Kinsey,” Shawn says, visibly puffing up like a bird at the opportunity to show off his knowledge. “He studied human sexuality.”

“Yeah,” John says, only kind of interested. John already had this internal thought process when he was sixteen and read about it and decided he was a solid three on Kinsey’s scale.

“I mean, I think that’s ridiculous though, his whole scale. I just read an article about bisexuality.” Jim’s hand has crept up onto John’s thigh, right above his knee, and John is trying very hard to focus on Shawn, even though he knows whatever Shawn is about to say is probably going to piss him off. “This article says bisexuality is basically a personality flaw. So-called bisexuals just can’t commit. They have no self control.” Jim’s hand clamps down on John’s leg. John squints at him, glances across the table at Corey, who definitely sets off his bisexual flags, and Corey’s giving him the most _fuck you_ look he can manage in his current state of inebriation. Sid’s making this confused face.

“If John’s good at anything, it’s being committed and working his ass off,” Manson says, which is weird, because by all means Manson should be jumping on the opportunity to rag on John. Which is when John remembers Manson has also definitely fucked around with dudes. John looks at Jim, who’s staring at the ceiling through his coppery bleached bangs. “Also probably sucking dick,” Manson adds. “‘Cause he’s a slut.” John snorts a laugh.

“I’ll take a compliment,” he says, “even if it’s backhanded.” Jim sighs next to him, shifts in his seat.

“No, man,” Shawn says, laying into it. “It was a scientific paper. It’s not about opinion. It’s the _facts_ and _logic_.”

“Shawn,” Jim says, and the tone of his voice in no certain terms implies the _please shut the fuck_ up after it.

“You can’t argue with science,” Shawn says. “What’s the problem here, man?”

“John’s like, right here, man,” Jim says. “Kind of a dick move to bring that up.”

“We were talking about Kinsey before he even showed up,” Shawn scoffs, “and I’m just talking about what I read. I’m not talking about John at all. You’re making it about John.” John sinks down in his chair a little. Maybe he should’ve stayed in his hotel room and waited for Jim to come to him.

“C’mon, dude,” Jim says, his fingers really digging into John’s thigh under the table, “he came down here to hang out with us and you’re being a dick for no reason.” John’s eyes flash to Manson and Corey and Sid, who are all _very interested_ in this discussion suddenly.

“I’m not being a dick,” Shawn says. “Talking about a paper I read isn’t being a dick. You’re the one being a dick, starting shit when there wasn’t anything to be pissy about. I’m stating facts I read. You’re putting words in my mouth and now you’re making John feel uncomfortable because you made it a thing, not me.”

John doesn’t say anything. Maybe he should go order a soda.

“Alright, whatever, dude,” Jim says, clapping his free hand down on the table. “Me and John are going upstairs and cranking the AC and watching monster movies. Corey, Sid, Manson, you can come if you want.” John doesn’t miss how pointedly Shawn is not included in this guest list.

Nobody says anything. Corey finally sits up off the table, leans back in his chair, sighs.

“I have an appointment,” Corey says, and sees himself out.

“Damn, Jim,” Shawn says, putting his hands behind his head in a manner that strikingly resembles a smarmy crime boss in a comic book, “running away instead of having a polite fucking discussion then. Can’t handle a fucking adult conversation.” John feels Jim tense next to him, sees his jaw clench.

“Y’know what,” Jim says, his voice raising in volume just a notch, “you’re a fucking dick, man. Fuck you.” John raises his eyebrows and Shawn finally loses his cool, stands up out of his chair to step to him.

“Listen, motherfucker--” Shawn says, and Jim slaps both his hands firmly on the table with a loud smack.

“Don’t fucking push it, Shawn,” Jim says. “Sit down.”

“If you wanna fucking start shit you better learn to finish it,” Shawn says. “Let’s wrap up this goddamn conversation then.”

John sees Jim’s fingers twitch. It happens quicker than he really has time to react to. Jim stands up, the chair clattering over behind him, grabs a fistful of Shawn’s shirt with one hand, yanks him, and then just drops him through the table.

The sound of splintering particle board and breaking glasses falling on the tile is loud and sudden, like a gunshot. Manson’s gone before Shawn hits the floor, over a bench seat and up the stairwell. Manson knows how to get the heck outta dodge before the cops come. Sid’s howling this scream-laugh, quite literally falling out of his chair. Before Shawn has a chance to yell something else at him from the floor, which he’s currently trying to get up from without sticking his hand in broken glass, Jim’s already heading for the elevator, walking at a freakishly fast pace on those long legs. John decides he doesn’t want to be around when Shawn gets his head back, so he runs after Jim to catch up and slips through the elevator doors just before they close.

Jim doesn’t say anything. John doesn’t say anything either.

For such a nice hotel, the elevator is slow. John leans against the wall, and Jim has himself wedged into the corner, looking uncharacteristically small. He’s got his head down, and he fidgets, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear just for it to fall forward again. John can feel his gears cranking, his nerves raw and exposed. It’s dripping off him, his disappointment in himself. Jim takes a deep breath, sighs slowly, and covers his eyes with his hand. John reaches over carefully, wrapping his fingers around Jim’s arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. Jim flinches. John doesn’t hold the contact. The elevator dings. Their floor.

It takes Jim a long moment to unfold himself from the corner of the elevator, but John doesn’t mind holding the door for him. He moves in what seems like slow motion, follows John to his door, and follows him in. John doesn’t want to stress him, so he turns the television on with the volume low, leaves it on the movie channel. He steps out of his shoes, and when he lays down, Jim’s still sort of awkwardly standing there at the side of the bed, looking as if he needs John’s permission to lay with him. John reaches an arm out and makes a grabby hand at him. Jim sighs, seems to deflate visibly, and puts his hand in John’s as he sits down. John shifts up onto his knees behind Jim, slips his arms around his middle, chin on his shoulder.

“Y’know, I’ve had moments where I kinda wanted to launch Manson through a table,” John says softly, “but alas, I have the build of a prepubescent girl.” Jim actually huff-laughs at that, and John smiles, kisses the side of his head behind his ear. “One of the shitty _Friday the 13th_ sequels is on. Wanna lay down?” Jim nods, so John lays back down. Jim takes a moment to take his shoes off, rolls his neck and his shoulders, then falls into the bed next to John. John hooks his arm around him, tries to pull his back to his chest.

“Are you trying to big spoon?” Jim remarks. 

“I _am_ big spooning,” John says.

“Pretty sure you’re too small to big spoon anyone, let alone me, but thanks for trying,” Jim says quietly. John sighs in response, grabs Jim’s hand, and holds it to his chest. He’ll let him have this one.

John’s not sure how long they stay laying there. The television is barely loud enough to hear, but he’s watched these movies so many times he knows exactly where they are in it just by the camp counselors’ screams. He’s not sure if Jim’s fallen asleep, but he suspects he’s far too wound up to doze off. John lifts his head, kisses the back of Jim’s shoulder.

“Hey,” John murmurs.

“Hm?” Jim hums back.

“Clown’s a fucking dick,” John says firmly. He doesn’t often swear, but the word choice is purposeful. “Fuck him.” Jim squeezes John’s hand, thumbs over his knuckles.

“I should go downstairs and apologize and pay for that table,” Jim says, and John would roll his eyes if that wasn’t so characteristically Jim. Launching his asshole percussionist through a table and being concerned about the table.

“It’s a hotel,” John says. “There’ll always be somebody at the front desk later. You can go before we leave for the venue, or tonight after the show.” Jim sighs, but doesn’t protest any further. John rests his head back down, nuzzles into Jim’s shirt. He feels Jim squeeze his hand again.

//

John is sitting on the curb of the hotel parking lot at about two in the morning. He’s drinking a Gatorade with a straw, watching Jim smoke, admiring his fingers. It’s Florida nighttime muggy, stifling after being in the hotel room all day, in the AC dry air. John’s considering asking Jim if he wants to go to the 7-11 a couple blocks down to stock up on snacks and Gatorade and maybe an extra thing of lube for their second day off in a row tomorrow, but also realizes rolling into a convenience store in the middle of the night with another dude to buy sex marathon supplies is probably beyond what his anxiety can handle.

“So,” Jim says, flicking his ashes in the general direction of the ground and looking anywhere but towards John, “it’s cool how you can like. Come just from butt stuff.” John almost inhales orange Gatorade.

“Uh,” John says, not entirely sure how to respond to that, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jim says. He’s still talking to the parked cars and not John. “Was that like, weird the first time?” John squints at the back of his head. He sighs, considers it.

“I mean, it feels totally different,” John says. “Also having stuff in your butthole is just like, weird anyway. So. I guess.”

The conversation dies off for a long moment. Jim picks at his nail polish. After a few drags off his cigarette, he says, “Well, if you wanted.” John looks up from reading the drink label.

“If I wanted what?” he asks.

“I mean you don’t have to like, fuck me or whatever,” Jim says, and John’s throat feels very dry all of a sudden. Oh. _Oh._ “But if you wanted to like. Finger me or whatever. Y’know.”

“You want me to finger you?” John asks bluntly. Jim flinches. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his middle finger.

“I just never fucked a girl that was offering so it just never crossed my mind till now,” Jim says, gesturing with his cigarette hand. “God. I feel like such a boring emotionally stunted weirdo on this goddamn tour.”

“Yeah, well, to be fair,” John says, “we’re touring with people that light themselves on fire for fun and also think it’s hilarious to shove my face into their junk in front of ten thousand people. So.”

“I guess none of this is normal, huh,” Jim says.

“Nope,” John says.

Jim throws his cigarette butt onto the asphalt, grinds the sole of his shoe into it.

“Anyway, I’ll finger you if you want,” John says. He sips his Gatorade. Jim doesn’t verbally respond to that, and he also avoids eye contact till they’re back in the hotel room and John grabs his face and kisses him, tasting smoke.

//

After the Charlotte show, they have another set of back to back days off. The first is a travel day. The second is another day off, staying in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, across from a Walmart and a Burger King. John needs some shit at Walmart, a few more pairs of tights or fishnets, black hair dye to touch up his bangs, maybe check out the bargain DVD bin. John showers after Jim does, puts on his underwear in the bathroom, is toweling off his hair as he grabs the jeans Jim took off him yesterday off the floor.

“Can you grab me a shirt out of my bag?” John asks, since Jim is just sitting there at the end of the bed, watching him. “Whatever one. As long as it smells decent.”

“You need to do laundry,” Jim says, moving to kneel at John’s suitcase anyway.

“Yeah, tell that to the rest of your freakin’ band,” John remarks, wringing the longest parts of his hair out. “Chris is nice and all but that hood he wears makes his hair stink.” John tosses the towel back into the bathroom.

“Fuckin’ shit, dude,” Jim says, and John looks over to find him holding up a pair of burgundy lace boyshorts by one finger. “I didn’t think you were the type to keep panties from your _conquests_ on tour.” Oh. Right. Maybe John shouldn’t have sent Jim into his bag knowing there’s panties in there.

“C’mon, man,” John says, “keeping your hookup’s underwear is trashy. They’re mine. And they’re clean. You’re holding them like they’re a biohazard. Jeez.”

Jim is looking at him, brows furrowed, as if he’s trying to figure out if John is bullshitting him. He holds them up, seeming to gauge if they are, in fact, John sized.

“You wear these?” Jim asks incredulously.

“Yeah, sure,” John says, shrugging. “They’re cute. So. Y’know. It’s not like I have a whole lot of dick to make them uncomfortable to wear. Those are like, Target three for five bucks bin. I have way nicer ones at home.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. He’s just looking at them.

“You wanna grab me a shirt, or am I just gonna have to steal your Zeppelin one?” John remarks.

Jim seems to jolt back to life, shoving the handful of red lace under a bunch of t-shirts and pulling out one near the top. He stands up and tosses it to John, who unravels it. Van Halen. He can do that. He pulls it on and they go to Walmart together and it almost feels domestic, something as normal and trivial as getting to admire Jim’s features in fluorescent lighting in the electronics section, the way his shirt clings to his sides when he leans down to dig through the DVD bin.

//

It’s late, late after the show, after the afterparty. When they finally get back to Jim’s hotel room, the analog clock is blinking _4:02_ at him. It’s that time of night when you’ve been awake for so long that everything becomes funny and there are no boundaries left. Jim falls back on the unmade bed where they’d hooked up earlier before the show today. John turns the lamp next to the bed on, sits down to take off his boots.

“Hey, gimme the remote,” Jim says, reaching out towards it. “I wanna watch infomercials. I fucking love infomercials.” John laughs once, grabs the remote, passes it to Jim.

“The kitchen appliance ones are the best,” John remarks, tossing his boots away and scooting backwards up the bed to sit against the headboard.

“Fuck, I know,” Jim says. He flicks through channels, past a couple old cartoons, past a few old reruns of sitcoms. John jumps when Jim skips past _Happy Days_.

“Wait, go back,” John says, grabbing Jim’s arm. “ _Happy Days_ is on.” Jim looks at him.

“You like _Happy Days_?” he asks.

“Duh,” John says. “That and _Hee Haw_ were my faves as a kid.”

“ _Hee Haw_ ,” Jim says incredulously. “It’s like I don’t even know you.” John snort laughs, and Jim flips back a channel. John leans into Jim’s shoulder.

“Y’know, we don’t really know each other that well, do we?” John asks. “We know we like telecasters, choking, and bad horror movies. _Hee Haw_ is why I play guitar and you didn’t even know I watched it growing up.” Jim seems to consider this.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “I was in a thrash metal band.” John grins.

“I did a record with Rob Halford,” he says. Jim stares at him.

“What!?” he blurts. “You did a record with _god_?”

“Yeah,” John sighs, grinning at the memory. “We did a music video that was like, all these porn performers and strippers and BDSM stuff. I still jerk off about it sometimes.” Jim scoffs. 

“Yeah, but you wrote music with Rob Halford,” Jim says reverently. “That’s _awesome_.”

“It was pretty awesome,” John admits. He pauses. “Y’know what? We should play the question game.”

“The what?” 

“The question game,” John repeats. “I ask you something, then you ask me something. No lying allowed. No subjects off limits.” Jim sighs loudly.

“I didn’t realize Ozzfest was high school and we were teenage girls buzzed on wine coolers,” he remarks, “but I’ll bite. You go first then. Shoot.” John considers it briefly.

“So how’d you lose your virginity?” John asks. Jim sputters.

“John,” Jim says. “Bowling right out of the gate with the virginity question?”

“Yeah,” John says, as if it’s obvious. Jim frowns.

“You’re gonna think I’m lame,” he says.

“No I won’t,” John says. 

“I was nineteen. That’s super lame.” Jim shrugs. “I was like, the last idiot in Des Moines to get laid.”

“That’s not even lame,” John says. “We can’t all be irresponsible sluts like me.” He giggles to himself, and Jim gives a weak smile. “How was it?”

“Pretty bad,” Jim says. “I drove a pickup truck and we did it in the truck bed on a pile of blankets. I don’t even know if it totally counts because neither of us even got off.” He shrugs. “Maybe I should get a beer from the mini fridge if you’re gonna start asking me questions about my early sex life.”

“Not fair,” John says. “If I don’t get to be drunk than neither do you.” Jim sighs.

“Cigarette okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” John says. Jim digs in his pocket. “I was fourteen,” John adds. “So. Y’know. Probably not very smart of me.” Jim takes a cigarette out, lights up.

“A lot of kids in Iowa were fucking in high school because there was nothing to do,” Jim remarks, lips still around the cigarette. He exhales smoke. “You’re from Detroit, right?”

“Only technically,” John says. “Like, the cushy rich part. We had a housekeeper and stuff.” Jim huffs. 

“Alright, so it’s my turn I guess,” Jim says. “Well, since you called yourself a slut. You ever had a threesome?”

“Depends how much involvement constitutes a threesome,” John says. “I’ve had an _audience_ , but he wasn’t involved.”

“Elaborate.”

“Manson’s weird,” John sighs, “and he wanted to, quote, _observe my technique_. So he watched me, uh.” He considers how he wants to word this. “I don’t sleep with girls I hook up with on tour. Just like. Outercourse.”

“Outercourse,” Jim laughs, ashing his cigarette.

“So yeah, that’s that,” John says. “I’m sure you were expecting me to have gotten gang banged or something.” Jim smiles. “So. I’m wondering. After we discovered you like your hair pulled and being choked. What is the actual kinkiest thing you’ve done?” Jim smears a hand down his face.

“My ex-girlfriend had me handcuff her once,” Jim says, “but I was way too paranoid about her cat batting the keys off the bedside table and hiding them to honestly enjoy it. Also maybe I’m just boring but it did absolutely nothing for me.” He drags off his cigarette.

“Truthfully, I’m not that into bondage,” John admits, toying with a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt. “I’d rather get held down. Like. Physically.” He feels himself blush at that, mostly because that must’ve been obvious by now. 

“Noted,” Jim says, placing his cigarette between his lips. He’s quiet, and John can tell he’s trying to think of a question. Jim inhales smoke, then asks, “If you had to fuck one of the Universal Monsters, which one would you fuck?” Oh. That’s a _good_ one. 

“Can I ask for more information?” John asks.

“I guess.”

“What kind of equipment does the Creature have?”

“Weird slimy tentacle.”

“And does Wolfman have a human dick or a wolf dick?”

“Wolf dick.”

John sighs. “This is hard,” he says. “I’m gonna have to go Creature.” Jim laughs.

“Gross,” he says.

“I love gross,” John says. “I’ve been peed on. I can handle a tentacle.”

“I watched Corey get peed on by four girls in a venue shower once, but that’s as close as I’ve gotten to being involved in that myself,” Jim says. He smashes his cigarette out in the ashtray. 

“He’s a man of good taste then,” John remarks. Jim laughs, mouths another cigarette, but doesn’t light up yet.

“Don’t enable him by telling him that,” Jim says. “Your turn.”

“Do you have siblings?” John asks. 

“Nope,” Jim says. “Just me.”

“I have two older sisters,” John says. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“You are _so_ a youngest child.”

“I know,” John says feelingly.

“Your parents still together?” Jim asks. “Count that as my next question.”

“They are,” John says. “Still live in the same house I grew up in.” He smiles weakly. “What did you want to be when you grow up? I always wanted to play guitar, so.” Jim still hasn’t lit his cigarette, is twirling it between his fingers. He purses his lips.

“Nothing, really,” Jim says. “I kinda. Didn’t plan to make it to twenty-five let alone twenty-nine, so I’m kinda just winging it, y’know?” He looks over at John uncertainly. John smiles weakly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean. I thought I was gonna stay a session guy in LA and just do sessioning for people. So in a way I’m winging it too. Y’know. Being in a for-real band with a bunch of idiots. Traveling and stuff.” He shrugs. “I get you.” Jim gives a half-hearted smile.

“I know a lot about being in a band with a bunch of idiots,” he remarks. John laughs, covers his face with his hands.

“God, you’re so right,” John says. “I still can’t believe Sid just whipped it out and peed on Clown’s kit.”

“Not for the first time either,” Jim says, raising his eyebrows. “I’m telling you now. One of them is gonna murder the other before album number three.”

“I don’t know how Manson and Pogo have coexisted for a decade without murder, so yeah, I get you,” John says. _Happy Days_ has turned into infomercials on the TV.

“You said you were fourteen when you lost your virginity?” Jim asks. John blinks, glances over at Jim.

“Yeah,” John says.

“Was that with a guy or a girl?” Jim asks. John tenses a little, swallows dryly.

“A girl,” John says.

“Why?” Jim asks. John looks down at his hands in his lap.

“She was older,” he says. He studies his fingers, picks at his nail polish. Jim is quiet, and John can feel his eyes on him. John hears him light up his cigarette, take a long drag, toss his lighter back on the table.

“How’d you know, then?” Jim asks, mercifully changing the subject. John looks back over at him. “Like. About the bi thing. Y’know.” 

“Same way you knew you liked girls,” John says, shrugging. “I was always equally attracted to guys when I would watch movies and stuff. I had such a big crush on Indiana Jones. Like. Embarrassingly big.” Jim seems to mull over that answer.

“In all fairness, Harrison Ford is a pretty good looking guy,” he says. John half laughs.

“So why did you even wanna hook up with me?” John asks. He chips his nail polish with his thumb. “If you’re into girls. Y’know.” Jim’s ashing his cigarette, sighs smoke, considers it.

“You don’t actually want me to answer that,” Jim says. It’s not a threat. Just a statement.

“Yeah, I guess,” John says, leaning back over onto Jim’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna know.”

It’s a long minute or two of silence, except for the low volume of the TV where some chef is slicing through household objects with an impossibly large knife, and Jim tapping his cigarette ashes into the ashtray. He finishes it quicker than the first one, mushes the butt out and doesn’t go for a third. John reaches over and takes his hand.

“It’s fine though,” John says. “You’re good.”

“Can I get a new question, then?” Jim asks, leaning his head over to one side to look down at John. 

“Alright,” John says. “What’s your favorite song on the radio right now that nobody would expect you to like? No guilt allowed though. Guilty pleasures don’t exist here.” Jim scoffs a laugh.

“Oh god,” he says. “All my metal cred is launching itself out the window. But oh man. _Get Ur Freak On_? Good fuckin’ song.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re so right,” John says, laughing. “I do love Missy Elliot though.”

“Okay, so, my turn,” Jim says, still holding onto John’s hand, “What’s the Japanese tattoo mean?” John squints at him for a moment, then realizes.

“Oh, the kanji on my chest,” he says. “It means kindness and respect.” Jim actually bark-laughs at that.

“Of course it does,” Jim says.

“If _Fight Club_ was real who would you fight?” John asks.

“I will kick Hulk Hogan’s ass, one hundred percent,” Jim answers, without a second’s hesitation.

“Gosh, you’re dumb,” John says.

“I know,” Jim says. There’s a beat. “Do you need me to go to Detroit and beat an older lady’s ass for you? ‘Cause I would. Y’know. I mean, Corey’s tiny, but he would totally help. He’s fucking angry. We’ll take care of it.” John smiles weakly. 

“That’s not even a real question,” he says, even though the fact that Jim would even say that makes his chest ache a little. “That’s just you trying to be badass. I want a new question.”

“Alright, fine,” Jim says. “So. What’s the worst thing you’ve jerked off to, then?” John bites his lip. Oh _jeez_. 

“Oh jeez,” John says. He considers it. “Define worst.”

“Like, gross, I guess,” Jim says. “Or just. Morally bad. I mean. We’ve established you’ve been peed on, so.” John blushes, sinks the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

“I guess I did say the only rules were no lying and nothing off limits, huh,” John mumbles.

“You did,” Jim says. John rubs his palms in, sees colors behind his eyelids.

“Okay,” John says, dropping his hands in his lap. “You gotta promise not to tell anyone and you gotta promise not to judge me.”

“Promise,” Jim says. “Swear on that real nice vintage gold tele you keep letting me play.” John giggles. Of course he’d swear on a fancy telecaster.

“Alright, well, uh,” John says. “Sometimes. I. Uh.” He chews into his lip, trying to carefully select the right words in the right order. “Sometimes I jerk off thinking about some really big scary guy in a mask breaking into my house at night and. Y’know. Having his way with me. Usually involving a knife.”

John doesn’t look over at Jim, doesn’t really want to see his reaction. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He’s probably considering kicking John out of his bed. John wonders if he’s finally crossed one of Jim’s boundaries.

“I don’t think that’s _that_ bad,” Jim says carefully. “I mean. It’s fucked up but it’s not like. Y’know. As long as you’re not upsetting yourself by thinking about it I guess.” John looks over at Jim, who’s already been watching him. “I appreciate that you trust me with that,” Jim adds. John relaxes a little, smiles, and Jim holds John’s jaw, lifts it up to kiss him. John relaxes into it, and Jim pulls him in, halfway on top of him.

“I have one more question,” John says, settling into Jim’s chest.

“Shoot,” Jim says.

“Why’d you drop Clown? Like. Really,” John says.

“Because,” Jim says stiffly. He pauses for a beat, and John can practically feel the storm threatening to brew. “Fucker had it coming.”

John sort of wonders if this is how straight men handle band disagreements, given he’s witnessed his fair share of fist fights break out between Manson and Pogo. Or if it really just hit a nerve because of John. Or maybe if it felt. Personal.

“So. Whose panties are in your bag. Really,” Jim says.

“Mine,” John says. “Really.”

Jim sighs beneath him. He pushes his face into the top of John’s head.

“It’s like five,” John says. “We should probably sleep.”

“Day off tomorrow, though,” Jim says, into John’s hair. John kisses him again, rakes his fingers through his hair.

“I’d prefer to not completely screw up my sleep schedule,” he says, lips brushing Jim’s when he speaks. Jim slides his hand up under the back of John’s shirt, warm on his back.

“Yeah, alright,” he says.

They share the bed without sleeping together in it first, and if John falls asleep thinking about that murky imaginary figure coming through his window wearing a work jumpsuit and a jester mask, it’s totally an accident.

**Author's Note:**

> http://ao3userfeistycadavers.tumblr.com


End file.
